Fearing Death
by Jinxed-Wood
Summary: A Doctor Who and Pushing Daisies Crossover - The Doctor was 900 hundred years, three thousand weeks, and a unquantifiable amount of days old when he materialised his TARDIS outside the Pie Hole...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Pushing Daisies belongs to Brian Fuller, all I have is my Microsoft word...**

**----FEARING DEATH----**

_Private investigator, Emerson Cod, was busy constructing the centre page of his first pop-up book sensation, 'How to Profit from the Death of a Loved One', when he received a phone call from the wife of one Rupert Collins. _

Rupert Collins, a respectable biochemist with Halik industries, was forty three years, thirty one weeks, four days, and twenty seven minutes old, when he met his untimely death in his lab, whilst biting into a vegemite sandwich. The coroner ruled his death as a heart attack, but the look of complete and utter terror they'd found on Rupert Collins's face, upon his death, caused June Collins, the not-so-merry widow, to wonder about what her husband had seen before he died.

It was a question only Rupert Collins could answer. 

Ned winced and drew back as Emerson unzipped the bag. "That is _not _normal," he said.

"It isn't?" Chuck asked. "I thought that, you know, the rictus of horror and death always looked like this." She snarled up her fingers and grimaced. It was rather cute, Ned decided, if a bit disturbing, considering the circumstances.

"Nooo, that's a bit of a myth, actually." Ned stuck his hands into his pockets. "It's usually only an expression of mild surprise: eyes a bit round, mouths slightly parted…" He shrugged uneasily. "Their lips don't usually peel back like that, over their teeth, and their eyeballs... um, usually stay _inside_ their sockets; maybe a poker was involved, or another household accessory?"

"Oh," Chuck's eyes widened. "Does that happen often – you know, with a poker?"

Emerson sighed. "Just touch him, okay?" he said. "Then we can get out of here."

"I'm starting the watch," Ned said softly, as he set the minute timer in motion, and prodded Rupert Collins to life.

"Aaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

Ned jumped back, and narrowly missed bumping into Chuck, as the corpse screamed its head off.

"Arrghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

Fifty seconds," Ned called out.

Mwaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

"Forty nine."

Ack…ack…aggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

"This is getting ridiculous," Emerson said, and slapped the Rupert Collins across the face.

"Ack—" said Rupert Collins, before taking a deep swallow. "Thank you," he added, after a moment's pause.

"You're welcome," Emerson said.

Chuck stepped up. "Do you have any last requests, or thoughts, people you want to say good bye to?" she asked.

"Huh?" he asked.

"You're dead," Ned told him, apologetically, as he eyed his watch. Thirty Seven seconds left. "Sorry, but we're on the clock, here, do you remember what you saw before you had your heart attack?"

"Heart Attack?" Rupert Collins echoed. "But I didn't have a heart attack!"

"You didn't?" Chuck asked.

Rupert Collins's pointed at his own face, still distorted into a mask of absolute terror. "Does this look like a heart attack to you?"

"He's got a point," Ned murmured.

"Doesn't matter," Emerson said. "We're getting paid to find out what he saw before he died, not how he actually kicked the bucket."

"Kind of the same thing, really," Rupert Collins said helpfully.

"See?" Chuck said, sticking out her tongue at Emerson's disgruntled face. Ned smiled; she was adorable when she did that, too.

"Whatever," Emerson said, folding his hands.

"So," Chuck said, turning to Rupert. "What was it that killed you, exactly?"

"A homicidal alien," Rupert Collins volunteered, with a smile… well, sort of a smile; turns out it's kind of difficult to summon a smile when your lips are peeled back into a rictus of terror.

The room fell silent. "I'm sorry" Ned eventually said. "I think we may have had a slight communication problem here; did you just said you were killed by an alien?"

"Ah, yes," Rupert Collins said. "I think we _have_ had a communication problem, actually."

"Oh, good," said Ned.

"Because what I said was: I was killed by a _homicidal _alien."

"Ah," Ned said, and Chuck elbowed Emerson as he sniggered into his sleeve.

"It's important not to reinforce stereotypes, you see," Rupert Collins blithely continued on. "Some can be quite sweet, actually, I knew this alien, once, who used to make these lovely Christmas cards for me… although, she did have this disturbing habit of putting Jesus on a sacrificial alter, wreathed in mistletoe, rather than in a crib – bit of a misunderstanding with cultural icons, I suspect - and did I mention that she was really quite sweet—"

"Time's up." Ned touched Rupert Collins and sighed with a relief as he fell back onto the morgue shelf.

"Well, that was different," Chuck said.

Emerson spun a finger at his temple. "Oh, yeah, that as different, all right," he drawled. "Come on, let's get out of here."

**

* * *

**

_The Doctor was 900 hundred years, three thousand weeks, and a unquantifiable amount of days old – primarily because he was still pretending his age amounted to a mere three digits - when he materialised his TARDIS outside the entrance to the Pie Hole. This, in itself, may have had no impact on this story, if it weren't for the fact that the Doctor's companion, a Miss Martha Jones, aged twenty four years, twenty six weeks, and forty eight minutes, hadn't looked at the menu in their window and spotted their triple berry pie._

"But it isn't just pie, it's triple berry pie!" Martha cajoled, already tasting the pastry crumbs in her mouth. The Doctor pouted, but Martha grabbed him by the elbow and tugged him in the direction of the door.

"Don't know what the fuss is," the Doctor muttered, "It's not as if it's got bananas in it, and besides, this is boring, we could be having pie in…in…the sky."

"It's pie, triple berry pie, we can have banana splits tomorrow," Martha said. "Again," she added, under her breath.

And so, the Doctor and Martha found themselves eating piping hot triple berry pie when Ned, Chuck, and Emerson came back from their trip to the morgue, and slid into the booth next to them.

"Mmmph," the Doctor said, a few moments later, his mouth filled with pie.

"Huh?" Martha asked. "What was that you said about homicidal aliens?"

The Doctor swallowed, then jerked his spoon at the booth behind him. "I wasn't ," he said. "But they were."

Six seconds later, both the Doctor and Martha were kneeling on the leatherette seats and looking down on the trio discussing the mystery surrounding Rupert Collins's death, in the next booth.

"Excuse me," the Doctor said. "Sorry, don't mean to bother you," he said. "But you were talking about aliens?"

"Homicidal aliens," Martha chipped in. "As opposed to the nicer, pie eating variety."

"Or the ones who make Christmas cards" Chuck added helpfully.

"Those ones, too," the Doctor said, with a wide grin. "Although you rarely see the nice ones round here, on account of the Earth being pretty much a backwater class five planet that only an exploitative ne'er-do-well would even bother to visit, of their own free will."

"Or a time traveller, out to see the universe by bending time and space," Martha pointed out.

"Yeah, that too," the Doctor said, as he licked his spoon. "Nice pie, by the way."

"Thanks," Ned said, because he didn't think he had anything else to say about the matter.

"I'm the Doctor," the Doctor said, almost as an afterthought. "And this is Martha."

"Hi," said Chuck, smiling up at them.

"Hi, said Martha. smiling back. "Sorry to butt in like this."

Emerson scowled at them. "Did anybody ever tell you it was rude to eavesdrop?"

"Ah, but I wasn't, you know," the Doctor said. "Eavesdropping, I mean, just got good ears – one of the signs of an enquiring mind, you know."

"A busybody, is what you mean," Emerson huffed. "And we don't need your help, thank you very much, we've already got things covered."

"Oh, right then," the Doctor drawled. "Then you've already figured out that Halik Industries is your next port of call, then?"

"Yes," said Emerson.

"No," said Chuck. "Why do you think it has something to do with Halik Industries? Is it because he died there?"

He did?" the Doctor blinked. "Oh dear, we'd better hurry then."

**---TBC---**


	2. Chapter 2

**---PART TWO---**

_The facts are these: Halik Industries, a company with shady ties to the government and a rather successful line in laundry detergents, was run, with an iron fist, by its founder, Mr Robert J.E. Doubleday, aged sixty nine years, sixteen weeks, five days, and fourteen minutes. Mr Doubleday, in his previous life, had worked in a top secret facility in Arizona, located between area fifty, and area fifty two… _

But that is another_ story, so we'll go back to this one… _

Earlier that day, Robert J.E. Doubleday was sipping his morning coffee at the exact same moment Martha and Doctor materialised, in the TARDIS, in front of the Pie Hole. This, in itself, may have been construed as a coincidence if it weren't for one singular fact.

Homicidal aliens can also be paranoid aliens with the ability to detect Huon particles and an aversion to nosy Timelords.

Which meant that Robert J.E. Doubleday had just become a liability and a twenty second insert into the local radio news.

**---::---**

"Department of health and safety," the Doctor announced, as they trooped into the coroner's office.

"Is that so," the coroner drawled, smirking at Emerson.

Martha tugged at the Doctor's arms and hissed something urgently into his ear. "Oh? Really?" the Doctor said. "Right, sorry, wrong plane—, countr– CDC!" He whipped out his psychic notepaper, and waved it under the coroner's nose.

Puzzled, the coroner looked at the doctor's ID. "And you're with that lot?" he asked, jerking a thumb at Ned, Chuck and Emerson, who'd frozen in their tracks on their way to the inner morgue door.

"Other way around, actually," the Doctor informed him breezily. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Doctor Jones and I need to do a quick examination of the body."

"Ain't you forgetting something?" the coroner asked, rubbing his finger and thumb together. Emerson sighed as he counted out the notes from his roll, peeling off an extra two as the coroner's eyes flicked over to Martha and Doctor.

"Try to keep the screaming to a_ minimum,_ this time," were the coroner's parting words.

"You do that often?" Martha asked, once they were alone in the morgue.

"It cuts down on the chit chat," Emerson said. "Seems to be too much of that around here, of late –and you owe me a hundred bucks, by the way."

"I still don't see why they had to come along," Ned murmured anxiously. "I do my best work alone, by myself, without any witnesses…"

But the Doctor and Chuck were already pulling out Mr Doubleday's tray, and Ned sighed, as he poked his hands, as deep as they would go, into his pockets and leaned up against the far wall. Chuck zipped down the bag, and the Doctor and Martha crowded around the body.

"That isn't right," Martha said promptly, looking at the victim's face.

"Yeah, I know," Chuck replied. "Ned mentioned it last time; you seem to know what you're doing?"

"Intern," Martha said, as she poked at the body. "Lividity is way off the charts."

The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver, and twiddled at the settings. "This should give us something," he muttered as he pointed it at the body.

Emerson leaned back. "What, the hell, is that?"

"What? Oh, this? This is a sonic screw-_scan_ner-like-thingummy," the Doctor lied…badly. "Pay no attention."

But Emerson wouldn't let it go; all those years knitting complex plain-purl patterns had left him with an extensive woolly hat collection and a burning desire to know exactly where the stitch had slipped.

"Actually," he said. "I think I will pay close attention, any funny tricks and you're out on your ear."

"You'll be out a hundred dollars," Martha pointed out.

"It'll be worth it," Emerson said grumpily. "Bad enough with dead girl around—"

"Dead girl?" Martha echoed.

"Oh, he's talking about me," Chuck piped up. "Long story, very long story: childhood sweethearts, funerals, apple pie…won't bore you with the details."

"U-huh," Martha said.

"Aha!" the Doctor said, as the screwdriver suddenly beeped furiously. "I've got something; it's big, it's _huge_, it's fracturing the space-time continuum…and it's not coming from the body." The Doctor tore his fingers through his hair, swivelled on his heels, and looked directly at Ned. "It's coming from you, actually," he said

Ned smiled nervously. "From me?" he asked. "That can't be right. Something mustn't be sonicking correctly in your scanner. Maybe it's a passing bat, or alien... you know, doing alien…things."

Martha smiled at the alien, doing alien things, with the sonic screwdriver. "I think we can scratch that last one off the list," she said.

But the Doctor wasn't smiling; in fact, the Doctor looked positively grim. "Oh, this isn't good, this is bad, this is catastrophic… he could do terrible things, awful things, break down the barriers between what could have been and what is, it's—"

"I bring people back from the dead," Ned said quietly.

"Calamitous, a disaster— what?"

"I bring people back from the dead… for a minute," he said.

"A minute?" Martha asked. "And what happens then, they fall down dead again?"

"No, that isn't what happens," the Doctor said quietly. "That's when the universe springs back, and tries to avoid the chain of events caused by the interruption in the space-time continuum."

"Huh?" Emerson asked.

"The universe tries to avoid killing your grandfather," Martha piped up helpfully.

"By killing the next available warm body," the Doctor muttered.

"It's a random proximity thing," Ned said automatically, then shrugged.

"Dead girl," Martha muttered thoughtfully, looking at Chuck.

Chuck shrugged. "Told you it was a long story," she said. "Shall we wake him up now?"

"Wake him up?" the Doctor threw the corpse a considering look, then grinned widely. "Yeah, let's do that!"

Ned edged towards the body and looked down. Mr Doubleday's face didn't look very happy. "It's like the last one," he murmured.

"Might be contagious," Emerson said.

"Or the same murderer," Chuck suggested.

Ned pulled a face."Starting the Clock…_now._"

Robert J.E. Doubleday sat bolt upright on the morgue tray. "How dare you!" he said. "I'm the one who… who are you?"

"I'm the Doctor!" the Doctor piped up. "And this is Martha, and Emerson, and Chuck, and Ned, and—"

"You're dead," Ned interrupted. "Sorry, but we're running out of time."

"But if you have anything pressing to say, before you move on?" Chuck added.

Mr Doubleday's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I have something pressing to say, all right."

**---::---**

_And these are the words that pressed upon Robert J.E. Doubleday's mind: _

The Quantacook, a species from the Vega galaxy, crash landed in Arizona over three decades earlier. Unable to go home, and in need of a new food source – they admitted to a fondness for fresh root vegetables and dairy products - the Quantacook struck a deal with the nearest able bodied native they came across, which happened to be Agent Robert J.E. Doubleday.

The deal was this:

Mr Doubleday would supply the Quantacook with an unlimited food supply, by transporting them to the nearest population centre, and the Quantacook, in return, would supply Mr Doubleday with an untraceable substance, addictive by touch. Three weeks later, Agent Doubleday had become Mr Doubleday, and Halik Industries were born, with an extremely popular laundry cleaning line…

Unfortunately, for Mr Doubleday, and the rest of the human race, the Quantacook left out one, tiny detail. They weren't very nice people. In fact, the Quantacook were positively nasty. They also had their own form of addiction: the endorphins given off by a person living in fear… 

**---::---**

"But why now"? Chuck asked. "If they've been living here for three decades, why start killing now?"

"My guess is, they_ haven't_ just started," the Doctor said grimly. "They're just striking a lot closer to home, covering their tracks. Addictive personalities are frowned upon in Quantacook society, they're seen as a weak link – who else knows about the Quantacook?"

"A few of the biochemists, maybe—" And then Mr Doubleday fell back onto the tray.

Ned waggled his finger. "Time was up," he said.

**---TBC---**


End file.
